


In the Republic of the Boudoir

by fearoflying



Series: The Republic of Two [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: All vulvas are beautiful, Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley Live Together (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley in Love (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Aziraphale's sexy hairbrush, Baked Goods, Baked goods I forgot the baked goods, Body Hair, Body Worship, COVID-19, Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Caring Crowley (Good Omens), Coronavirus, Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley's Eyes (Good Omens), Crowley's patience kink, Exhibitionism, F/F, Feminization, Femme Aziraphale (Good Omens), Femme Crowley (Good Omens), Fluff and Smut, Free Will, Hair Brushing, Hair Kink, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Jesus that should do it, M/M, Making Love, Making an Effort (Good Omens), Orgasm Delay, Plague, Porn with Feelings, Pâtisserie porn, Quarantine, Shaving, Soft Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), True Love, Voyeurism, all bodies are beautiful, free spiritual beings, mention of other genital configurations, natural bush, shaved bush, social distancing, unbetaed we fall like Aziraphale's satin knickers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:07:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24842770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fearoflying/pseuds/fearoflying
Summary: As quarantine continues and time has gotten a bit wibbly-wobbly, Aziraphale and Crowley explore their feminine forms together, eat sweet treats, and say some things they should have said a long time ago.I guess this is a series now. You could read this as a stand-alone, but it picks up more or less where"In The Republic of Negative Capability"leaves off.And like In The Republic of Negative Capability, this is two chapters and a multimedia appendix. Unlike that story, both chapters are basically pure smut. Be advised.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: The Republic of Two [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1797064
Comments: 8
Kudos: 50





	1. Looking

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gingerhaole](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingerhaole/gifts).



> This is a thank-you gift to Gingerhaole for your devastating Polaroids, without which this never would have crossed my mind.
> 
> Stay safe, stay well, stay socially distanced, friends. We have a long way to go. And whoever y'all are, if you're reading this, I would love to hear how this strikes you. The dopamine hits from kudos and comments go much farther during social distancing.

Time had gotten a bit funny. Funnier than usual. Aziraphale paused from wrapping care packages of books for housebound neighbors —yes, only recent editions, and _yes_ , only titles of which he had several copies— at the sound of the front door clanging open. Crowley pushed the door open with a foot and bustled in with arms full, his face almost entirely concealed behind mask, hairdo and shades. He dropped what Aziraphale hoped might be two pastry boxes next to the dusty cash register and pulled the mask from his face, exhaling twice his volume in air. There was an odd energy about him.

“Y’were right, Angel,” he said, pulling the sunglasses off his face and tossing them onto a precarious stack of pulp paperbacks. When Crowley had left for a stroll several hours ago, they hadn’t been in the middle of any conversation. It had been a rather quiet few days, in fact.

“Oh? About what, my dear?”

“I am still thinking about it.” 

Aziraphale was always happy to be right. And he had little doubt that he usually was. But just now he was drawing a blank. He put down the Achebe, Barker, and Waugh he was parceling and thought hard for a moment, but couldn’t imagine what Crowley might be stuck on. 

“I’m sorry, Crowley, but what did I say you were thinking about?”

“You.” A frustrated noise. “ _You_ know.” A lengthy pause. Then, all in a rush, “Your days as a bawdy wench.” 

Aziraphale did remember. But surely that had been weeks ago. How many things had Aziraphale been right about since then? Had Crowley been thinking of nothing else? This _was_ a surprise. Aziraphale must have been frowning, because Crowley seemed to hide slightly inside his own frame. The angel’s tender heart —barely ever congealed— melted at the sight, and he reached for his lover’s hand.

“Oh yes, of course I remember. But do tell me a bit about what you were imagining.” He tilted his head and smiled, already halfway to coquette. Under Crowley’s gaze Aziraphale concentrated on the seam between his legs til it bloomed inward, warm and wet. The Effort showed on his face. The Serpent of Eden blushed and looked toward Heaven.

It charmed Aziraphale how completely vulnerable Crowley was to temptation; you’d think he’d be more hardened to his own tricks. And Aziraphale was a bit surprised at how good he himself had become at deploying them. He held Crowley’s palm open in one hand while the other traced his lifeline. Crowley had clearly wound himself up already; his breath stuttered at the light touch, his aura was frankly a bit humid. 

“Mmph…I was thinking…It’s…I wanna sssee you do it. Wanna feel it. Against me.”

“Well then…” Aziraphale was teasing now, and not just the sensitive skin of Crowley’s wrist. “What is it, precisely, that you’d like to feel against you? I want to make certain to give you what you’d like….”

“Your…breasts.” 

Aziraphale brought his lips to the base of Crowley’s thumb.

“Your hips.”

His tongue darted out and traced the fate line of Crowley’s palm.

“Hnngh…. _Wanna brush your hair_ ,” the demon exhaled in a rush. Aziraphale hid a vulpine smile against his palm.

“And you, my dear?”

“...Henh?”

“Would you join me in your feminine form?” Crowley nodded wildly. 

“Press your breasts against mine?” Crowley choked on an affirmative noise. 

“Let me brush _your_ hair?” Aziraphale slid his tongue up the ropy muscle of Crowley’s forearm and the demon’s knees buckled. Aziraphale caught him in an embrace, bringing their foreheads to touch.

“Oh my dear, you’ve got yourself in quite a state, haven’t you?” He got a sheepish smile in return. 

“Yes, my darling. Let me just close the shop and we can retire upstairs.” Literally no one else had been in the shop in months, but Aziraphale had nominally ‘reopened,’ with appropriate social distancing measures. He kept an arm around Crowley’s waist as he turned and snapped his fingers vaguely at the door, which locked, and the blinds, which clattered down all at once. Then they kissed their way toward the stairs, only occasionally tripping over bookpiles.

Late afternoon sun was streaming through the Western windows as they staggered into their bedroom. Aziraphale seemed to be a bit in charge at the moment, so he sat Crowley on the edge of the bed and closed the door. Then he paused on the carpet and composed his thoughts. In their long lives they had often enough encountered each other in various guises and forms. And now, in the short time as their own side, their Republic of Two, they’d made Efforts as the mood struck, combining and recombining for pleasure, in curiosity. But there had been very little call for guises since the not-end of the world, and it dawned on Aziraphale that Crowley was asking for something quite novel. 

Aziraphale knew that Crowley liked to watch him. Wistful sidelong looks, hungry little glances and flat-out staring, Aziraphale was used to it. Ok, he luxuriated in it, preening and glowing. It nourished him. Crowley was staring at him right now, in fact, and Aziraphale could feel his whole body light up under Crowley’s gold-slitted focus. But he’d never had to _do_ anything special for the attention. He’d just…gone about his business; reading, eating, sitting on a park bench. It had been easy to ignore his role in their little play. Now, though, he was being asked to perform. And to admit that he liked it. 

In point of fact, this was the idea that had stopped Crowley cold outside Ladurée that afternoon —his arms heavy with confections— and sent him running home. The pâtisserie was offering curbside pickups above a certain minimum order, and so he’d called in all the angel’s favorites. As a young baker with smiling eyes above a surgical mask had handed him his boxes, he was struck with a vivid memory. It wasn’t far from here; several hundred years ago, but only two or three miles East along the river. Crowley was lost in time.

The evening had been silent but for the laughing conversation of two young boys as they hammered quarantine notices to doorframes up opposite sides of the lane. He and the angel were watching out a window, drinking tepid ale and nibbling at the remains of supper in an upstairs room of a long-forgotten inn. Then Will Shakespeare popped out his front door behind a tannery across the way, as if setting off for a nighttime stroll. As if goodwill could ward off all ills, including this latest bout of plague. 

It was this they were waiting for; well, the angel was, anyhow. Aziraphale quickly stood, brushed off his breeches, and made for the door. He left without a word, and when he appeared in the street below his appearance was transformed: long flaxen hair was plaited down his back, and a brocade bodice cinched his waist narrow below copious breasts and above generous hips. Wide-swinging skirts swept the filthy stones as he clacked across the street.

Crowley watched him approach the Bard and slip a delicate hand around the man’s waist, guiding him back toward his home. They touched with ease and affection; Crowley strained his ears but couldn’t make out the playful back and forth. Will disappeared inside, but the angel lingered on the threshold for a moment, then cast a glance over his shoulder. It flew like an arrow through the open window where Crowley remained, stock still. The glance brimmed over with feeling: obvious pleasure, feinting art, and a bittersweet tenderness that confounded Crowley as much as it wounded him. What would it feel like to be the one for whom Aziraphale readied himself thus? 

Crowley found himself stock still on the sidewalk four hundred years later, overburdened with sweets, while realization suffused his body. He could be that one. He was that one. Aziraphale had expressly offered to take that form with him, only days ago. Crowley couldn’t leg it to the bookshop fast enough, a neat little cunt budding hot inside him.

Now he sat on the bed, his shadow just reaching Aziraphale, who was otherwise gilded in the last of the daylight. Crowley’s breath had settled and his pupils were dilating, taking in the textures of the scene in front of him. Aziraphale looked not nervous, but thoughtful. He unrolled his sleeves deliberately, unbuttoned his waistcoat and shirtfront, looking down at his hands. As he slid the shirt from his shoulders, he glanced up and quirked a smile, then bowed to take his trousers down. Each garment was laid carefully over a clothes-horse in the corner.

To Crowley there was no look more quintessentially Aziraphale than this: a crown of soft golden curls and sharp blue eyes, an expanse of rosy flesh above a pair of white satin bloomers (not The Lacy Ones, but not _wholly_ different) followed by cream and blue-tone argyle socks held high on thick shins by sock garters. A study in warm, harmonious contradiction. The angel bent to remove his socks —with a little embellishment of his hips— then stood with fingers hovering at his waistband, a question in his eyes.

Crowley nodded, mouth dry, then found his voice: “Yeah. Show me.”

Aziraphale made the final act of disrobing into one long caress. Then he stood again, assuming the timeless stillness of a marble statue, albeit a blushing one. 

“You’d like to see me take my feminine form.” It wasn’t a question.

“Uh huh. Show me how you do it.” 

Crowley was surprised to find that Aziraphale began from the bottom. His toes were already painted a rosy gold, but as the angel wiggled them and rocked lightly on his heels, the aspect of his feet changed from blunt to tapered. He bent to caress his shins and the halo of gold hairs grew finer, smoother. The silhouette of his legs shifted subtly from doric column toward Grecian urn. He seemed utterly engrossed in his work and at the same time utterly attuned to his audience. Crowley was rapt. The petrichor scent of miracle pervaded the room.

Aziraphale’s fingers traced around his torso, making subtle shifts and redistributions. The scant curls on his chest vanished, and those below his navel retreated to his mons. The fullness of his belly and waist migrated south to further broaden his hips and plump his heart-shaped buttocks. Crowley let out a pressured breath and leaned back on his hands. Aziraphale caught his eye as he palmed his chest. His breasts swelled til they were overflowing his fingers, and he gave them an artful squeeze before letting them fall, full and heavy, to his chest. His areolas were broad and vanishingly pale, his nipples tiny bright nubs. Crowley swallowed hard. 

Aziraphale caressed the edges of his face lightly with the tips of his fingers. The delicacy of his features remained unchanged, but the canvas on which they rested softened from square to oval. Finally, beginning at his hairline, the angel ran his fingers back and back, inventing curly locks, whiter than hay, til they covered —barely— his abundant breasts. The effect complete, he gave Crowley a daring look, ran a hand over his rounded hip. 

“Is this… something like what you were imagining?” 

The noise Crowley made was not language.

“I haven’t always taken quite so much care with it.” Aziraphale shifted his weight a little bashfully. 

“Hngh. No, I’d imagine not.” Crowley shook off his stupor and stood, though something prevented him from closing the distance between them. “Angel, you look…” —deep breath— “beautiful. You look beautiful.”

“Oh, Crowley, _thank_ you.” Aziraphale’s smile was heat and warmth in equal measure.

“Thank _you_. For showing me.” He was feeling a bit formal suddenly, a bit uncertain. 

“Now I think it’s your turn to show me. How you do it, as you say.” Aziraphale gave him a mischievous look as he made himself comfortable on the vanity stool, tossing his hair over a shoulder. 

**To be continued…**


	2. Touching

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the 2nd of 2 chapters, the story is now complete. Stay tuned for a couple of multimedia extras sometime next week, but you can read this without fear of being stranded.

Crowley stepped to the center of the carpet, where the last rays of sun had just departed. He made fast work of his shirts and scarf, slowed down only by the blasted tightness of his trousers, but soon enough was standing naked in front of the angel.

Aziraphale’s eyes caught on the trim diamond of crimson hair that decorated Crowley’s otherwise nude sex, then glanced down at his own full nest of curls. Crowley clocked the movement and instinctively covered his cunt with long fingers. 

“My dear…” Aziraphale began, and Crowley was already recriminating himself. “Would you prefer if I …took a style a bit more like yours?”

“You’re perfect, Angel. You _know_ I love it the way it is.”

“But perhaps….”

“No, Angel. It’s beautiful. I love yours. I did this… I don’t know, I like the way it feels sometimes.” 

Aziraphale looked thoughtful as he ran his fingers through his own pubic hair. Crowley blew on his hands, then dragged his fingernails down his mons, miracling a thick, 70’s style bush into existence that slightly breached its borders onto his upper thighs. The angel burst out in delighted laughter. 

Then Crowley set to work transforming himself, beginning from the top, as he always did, because _obviously_. The hairstyle that came to mind was a long asymmetrical bob, so he swept it into being and moved on quickly, trying not to overthink it. When he was alone he often overthought the hair. A light touch softened his jaw and brow. His hands on his torso didn’t make such tectonic shifts as the angel had: he swept the hair from his abdomen, sheathed the blades of his hipbones, and brought wee, weightless breasts into being by pulling his nipples and thinking of Aziraphale’s mouth on him. A little further reflection on this subject caused his nipples to darken and swell at an improbably upward angle. As if he could read Crowley’s mind, Aziraphale made a hungry sound. Crowley might have rushed a bit through the rest: a little fullness to his buttocks and thighs, a higher arch to his foot, and done. 

“Oh, lovely! Simply lovely, Crowley.”

He smiled shyly and stepped to Aziraphale, turning him on his stool to face the vanity and caressing his shoulders. Crowley lifted Aziraphale’s heavy hair and laid it down over his shoulder blades, the ghosts of his wings. He pressed his front against the angel’s back, tender tits tickled by white-gold curls, and reached for the hairbrush. Crowley had certain feelings about Aziraphale’s hairbrush; old as anything but perfectly cared for, butterscotch bakelite marbled with gold, some kind of natural bristle. Smooth, thick handle. Crowley turned it in his hand twice before sinking it into Aziraphale’s mane. The angel’s eyes closed in satisfaction. For long minutes, the only sounds were the pull of bristles and contented sighs. 

Finally Aziraphale found Crowley’s eyes in the mirror.

“My dear.”

“Hmm?” 

“Would you please tell me a little bit about what you like about it?” 

“Brushing your hair?”

“If you like, but I meant about the style of your…quim.” This had become the preferred term in their household, although Aziraphale tended to avoid terms altogether, and privately Crowley believed only Aziraphale manifested a quim. His own seemed more like a cunt to him, but whatever got the angel talking dirty. Brushing the angel’s hair had relaxed him enough that he took the time to think, and answer honestly.

“S’not really about the style. It’s the feeling. It’s… extra naked. Have you really never tried it?”

“Well, you know it’s been mostly with you I’ve come to enjoy this Effort so much.”

“That can’t be true, what about with Shakespeare?” This was still annoyingly present in Crowley’s mind.

“That really wasn’t quite what you imagine, my dear.” Crowley snorted. “No, honestly! We did go to bed together from time to time, but it was really more often a matter of… spiritual intercourse. I can see that you don’t believe me.”

“I believe you, Angel. I have no idea what that means, but I believe you. So you never shaved each other’s junk, just to see what it was like?”

“It honestly never occurred to me.”

“What about with the Sisters? St. Catherine? Teresa?”

“I liked their hair! Crowley, you _know_ it was never the fashion, until _you_ started it, just last century. Isn’t that right?” Crowley nodded, chagrined. “Well. And we wouldn’t even have had razors in the convents in those days, except maybe in the stables.”

“You could have just miracled it off.”

“That would have been a very unjustified miracle indeed. But you are right, I’d almost forgotten. I did make this Effort with several of the Saints, and thoroughly enjoyed it.”

“Course you did. Someone had to make those visions ecstatic, am I right?”

“Oh _really_ , Crowley!” But his mischievous smile was back. He pulled the demon into his lap, catching him around the slender waist before they tumbled over. Their kisses were playful as Aziraphale stroked Crowley’s firm thighs. Crowley parted them with a sigh, and Aziraphale slid a hand between. His fingers began to tease at Crowley’s slit, ruffling soft crimson curls. 

“I have to admit…” he began to say, when their lips parted momentarily, “that I’m growing quite curious… about the feeling you mentioned.” A long pause as Aziraphale slipped his tongue between Crowley’s lips and finger between his labia simultaneously. Crowley moaned and melted. “I wonder if you’d like to… help me feel it.”

“Mmh…you want me to…?” Crowley trailed off and waggled his fingers occultly toward Aziraphale’s crotch. 

“I was rather thinking you might do it by hand?”

“Ngk.”

“Do you think you would enjoy that as well?” Aziraphale had Crowley in the palm of his hand, so he could feel how wet the demon was becoming. As such, he was laying it on a little thick. “Do you know, I think I have the requisite…materials. In the cupboard, in the lavatory.”

Crowley, who moments ago had been a puddle, and who had never done more than pop his head in the lavatory to look at his hair once or twice, suddenly couldn’t get there fast enough. He sat the angel on the lip of the tub, set the hairbrush down on the sink’s edge, and began to rummage in the mirror cabinet. There followed the clinking of glass bottles: eau de cologne, eau de cologne, eau de toilette, eau de parfum, cuticle cream, scented lotion, rose water, aftershave. Finally he emerged with a brush, a pewter cup, and an honest-to-someone straight razor, not much worse for a century of wear. Or actually…

“Aziraphale, gotta ask. Why is this even here?” Crowley squeaked it open and shut. “We don’t….” A vague gesture toward his face. 

“No. But I had… an occasional visitor at one time.” 

Aziraphale pursed his lips a little sadly, saying no more for the time being. Crowley nodded once, then turned back to the tools before him. He had his own sentimental objects from the odd human friend. This visitor must have been long dead, if the style of his toiletries was any indication. But now the razor gleamed like new: any rust had already fled in deference to Crowley, and the blade honed itself out of respect. He wet the brush and rubbed the dessicated shaving soap at the bottom of the cup until a jasmine-perfumed lather began to mount. With one foot he slid the small rag rug across the floor, then adroitly knelt in front of the angel, still swirling the brush.

Aziraphale’s knees were primly together, so Crowley took the foamy brush and swiped across them. Aziraphale chuckled, opening them brazenly. Crowley wiped the cream off the angel’s knees with his wrist, then set the cup down and ran fingertips along spread, thick thighs, up to the creases of hips, then down through downy curls. He reached for the razor and swung the blade open.

“Probably couldn’t bring myself to do this if I didn’t know you could grow it right back.”

He made several quick, dry passes with the blade, sending a snow of platinum curls to the floor and vanishing them, til Aziraphale’s vulva looked like a shorn sheep. Then he picked up the brush and painted a first stroke of cream directly down the center of Aziraphale’s mons. More cream, then he followed the contours of of the angel’s labia. 

“Crowley, that feels…oh, just _wonderful_.” 

The demon hummed in deep agreement, painting a generous margin up onto milky thighs and belly. He filled in, touched, and retouched —taking longer than strictly necessary— before setting the brush back in its cup. The angel was breathing hard. Crowley put a firm hand on one angelic knee and pushed it wider, then picked up the razor and began his delicate work. 

Aziraphale hissed quietly at the first cold pass of the blade. He wasn’t nervous, but the long, soft scrape awakened the nerves of his corporation and buzzed through the channels of his celestial body. Crowley paused, looked up cautiously.

“Alright, Angel?”

“ _Oh_ yes. Please…continue.” He sounded breathless.

Crowley was methodical and skillful. Aziraphale closed his eyes and followed the trail of the razor’s edge, the nimble fingers that pulled his skin taut. He was growing warmer from the heat of Crowley’s breath on his sensitized flesh, the occasional cold flash of the flat of the blade followed by a soft caress. He was starting to tremble. The lightness of the touch, the intensity of feeling but absence of contact, made his whole being hungry. His hands gripped the edge of the tub. He had to force his legs open: he could feel a grasping emptiness in his quim. He was starting to slide slightly up out of his corporation, unconsciously looking for some kind of ethereal fulfillment.

“Crowley.” It was a whisper. He started again. “Crowley, my dear. I need something…”

“Anything, Angel.”

“Firm. Something hard.” Crowley could hear the holy shiver in his voice. He gripped a fistful of the angel’s hip with one hand, then grabbed the hairbrush and brought its flat side squarely down on Aziraphale’s soapy lips. The wet slap echoed in the small, quiet room. Aziraphale grunted, back in his body, nodded hard. Another slap; not painful, but clear and grounding. Two more and Aziraphale was loose-limbed and sighing with relief. Crowley slapped the sides of the angel’s breasts with the sticky brush, causing them to wobble, then he drew the flat side down his belly to give his plump lips a final spank. The angel’s quim was blushing furiously. There was just a little more to go, where cream clung to labia as they tapered to meet buttocks.

“Perfect, darling, thank you. Please feel free to finish.”

Crowley kissed Aziraphale’s thigh, then skimmed the last of the stubble in a few deft movements before sitting back to admire the angel’s gleaming, naked sex. He took a flannel and ran it under warm water, then tenderly wiped Aziraphale’s lips clean. Aziraphale whimpered, thighs trembling. The moment dragged out. 

Finally Crowley rinsed the cloth, set it over the sink’s edge. He brought his face low, close to the angel’s bare quim. He squeezed the angel’s hip again and breathed in jasmine-soapy cleanness, the scent of brackish water and the sharpness of arousal, before bringing his lips to Aziraphale’s in that closest kiss of feverish heat, supernatural softness. 

This was exactly why Crowley had started the appalling trend, in his mustache days at the close of the 70s. He’d had a taste of this bare skin slip-slide during one memorable temptation, then whispered in the ears of fashion photographers, pornographers, erotic models. Like nearly everything in his long life he’d had regrets about it later, but they vanished in a moment as he pressed his face into Aziraphale’s velvet folds. The angel cried out, thrusting against Crowley, thighs squeezing. Crowley surrendered immediately, became the willing implement of Aziraphale’s slippery pleasure, mouthing and licking and allowing himself to be moved. 

The angel was not long in coming, overexcited as he was. He cradled Crowley’s head against his swollen sex as he keened and shivered. The demon’s eyes were squeezed shut. His free hand had snaked down and was teasing his own slit. Celestial time passed. 

Finally, “Crowley.”

The demon cleared his throat. “Yes, Angel?”

“I ah… understand what you meant.”

“M’glad. Nice, right?”

“Very nice.” He glanced down to where the demon was still idly tapping his clit with a slender finger. I’m sorry I’ve neglected you, I was a bit caught up. Darling tell me, would you like me to… brush your hair?” 

Crowley sat up eagerly. There was something in Aziraphale’s tone that conveyed not-total transparency, which was always good. 

“Why don’t you make yourself comfortable on the bed?” Aziraphale gave Crowley a hand to stand up, but held him back to kiss his wet mouth deeply. Then he steered Crowley toward the bedroom, hairbrush in hand.

Crowley caught himself in the vanity mirror and had to admit —at least privately— that his feminine form was enticing. Arousal darkened his eyes, reddened his lips and cheeks. His hair looked windswept and tousled somehow, not just rumpled by Aziraphale’s frantic hands and thighs. With the pinch of extra flesh around his hips and buttocks the sway of his gait had leveled up from venial to mortal sin. 

He watched Aziraphale come up behind his reflection and slide a hand up his narrow abdomen, resting it across his heart, the underside of his buoyant left breast. The angel swept his scarlet hair to one side with the brush and sank gentle teeth into the root of his neck. Crowley sighed back against his soft breasts and belly. Aziraphale was watching them in the mirror as well.

“I want you to know,” the angel murmured into Crowley’s neck, “that I love to look at you.” 

Crowley squirmed a little in the spotlight, but he was grinning. 

“And I love the way this looks, so wild. Your burning bush.” Aziraphale obviously thought he was being _very_ clever, but as he was speaking he stroked the hairbrush through Crowley’s unruly pubic hair, so the demon chose not to give him a hard time. Instead he let the angel hold more of his weight and spread his legs wider. Aziraphale took the hint, brushing and caressing, reaching to run the bristles between Crowley’s legs, along his lips. Crowley tipped his head back against the angel’s shoulder.

“S’good, Angel. Tease me like that.” 

Aziraphale dragged the brush up, against the grain of the crimson hair, then brushed it smooth again. He did this slowly, insistently, til Crowley’s legs were shaking, then he did it some more. Finally he turned them away from the glass and walked them to the bed, never letting go. 

“Do lie down, my dear, and let me see your lovely quim.” 

Crowley crawled across the coverlet and sank back, knees dropping wide to reveal a gatefold picture of arousal. Aziraphale climbed up and lounged on his side, propped on an elbow. He picked up where he’d left off, gently running the bristle brush through Crowley’s magnificent bush. Crowley purred. Aziraphale skated the edge of the demon’s delicate interior, the eager clit and swollen lips, the tender aperture and the little well where dew was pooling. 

“Exquisite, Crowley. Just look at you.”

Crowley made an embarrassed sound and pressed his face toward the pillow, but his thighs remained avidly spread. Aziraphale thought maybe several hours had passed since they’d come upstairs, and he still hadn’t touched his demon where he clearly needed it. With another lover, he thought, this kind of neglect might even be cruel. But Crowley was kinky for patience. At times he seemed almost disappointed to finally feel the pleasure he’d earned. So the angel continued to tease him with the brush until the hair was downy soft and pearls of arousal were steadily dripping down the cleft of his arse.

“May I give you more, my love?”

The muffled noise was affirmative. Aziraphale put a hand to the taut flesh below Crowley’s navel and leaned close enough to feel heat radiating from his spread sex. Taste and feeling merged as Aziraphale slid his tongue into tart, salty slickness. Crowley mewled. The angel nuzzled deeper, licking and rocking his face as Crowley began to move against him. This was a long, thrusting embrace, which Aziraphale only broke when he saw Crowley’s hands clenching and unclenching by his sides, a telltale sign that he was feeling empty inside. Steadying a thumb on his stiff little clit, the angel grabbed his hairbrush off the bed and sank its smooth, rounded handle into Crowley’s cunt in one firm slide. At its depth, the bristles were just tickling his lips. Crowley squeezed around it, his whole body tight. The angel fucked him at first, breasts swinging with effort. Then Crowley’s hips were pumping, and Aziraphale just had to hold the brush steady and press the demon’s clit while Crowley fucked himself to rough completion. 

“Stay a minute,” Crowley said finally, his voice hoarse from shouting. Aziraphale hadn’t moved. Crowley fucked himself lazily against Aziraphale, reaching for the angel’s wrists to tinker with the angle and pressure, before ruthlessly chasing down a second climax. 

“Would you like another?”

“Wanna fuck _you_ now, if you want…”

“With pleasure, my dear. Shall I find the dildo?”

“Yeah, but lemme use the brush first.”

“You love this brush.”

“Uh huh.”

And so the night went on.

***

The sun was just spilling in the Eastern windows when Crowley went downstairs in Aziraphale’s silk robe to collect pastries. Assumed forms and guises, like Efforts, cease when you stop making them, so the couple looked much as they ever did now that they were sated (though Crowley was keeping the bob— for the moment). Aziraphale had remade the bed, so they sat on the flowered coverlet like it was a picnic. Crowley untied the boxes and set out two plates. A teapot and two saucered cups had also appeared. 

“Oh, Crowley. This is splendid. _So_ sweet of you.”

“S’nothing.” But he was smiling. 

“I think I’d like to try…” Aziraphale surveyed the bounty. The rainbow of macarons could wait. The chocolate treats were called _Plaisir Sucré_ , and on name alone he was sorely tempted, but his hand strayed toward a rosy, multi-layered confection. 

“Now this looks divine. I’m afraid I don’t know it.”

“It was a special today. Yesterday. Whenever. She said it was like a _tiramisu_ tart, but with _fraises des bois_ instead of coffee.”

“Well that does sound heavenly. Or, rather, delicious.” He paused to take the first bite and groaned. Crowley shook his head, smiling to himself. Still such wanton indulgence. “What do they call it?”

“Well, you know what they call _savoiardi_ in French?”

“The lady fingers? Oh dear, aren’t they called _boudoirs?_ ”

“Yep." Grin. "This is _Les Fruits du Boudoir_.”

“Good gracious.” Aziraphale savored another bite in light of this new information. “Well, it certainly is that. This wouldn’t have anything to do with the mood in which you came home, would it?”

Crowley coughed, sighed, and peered all around before finally accepting that no one else was going to step in and answer on his behalf.

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“I think it reminded me of something. Or maybe just the baker’s eyes. I don’t know. I was thinking…you probably won’t remember. We were together one night, maybe 1605, 1606?”

Aziraphale was watching him closely, kindly, with a little pink cream on his lip. 

“You went out to meet Shakespeare, you took your bawdy form and took him home. It was the beginning of quarantine again, that might have reminded me too. But you stopped and turned, just outside his house. Do you remember?”

Crowley was speaking quickly, to his hands, but he glanced up. Aziraphale nodded, lips tight in a tiny smile.

“I was wondering what you were thinking just then? Or forget it, there’s no way you remember.”

“I remember.” 

Crowley fell silent, met his eyes cautiously. 

“I wanted to make certain you were looking at me. I _hoped_ that you were looking at me. I took extra care with that form for you. Will liked me any which way, but I wanted you to see me looking lovely.”

“You did. I saw you. But you looked _sad_ , Angel.”

“Well. I was walking away.”

“Yeah.”

“You must know, now. I couldn’t have said so before, least of all to myself, but your eyes on me give me such pleasure. Your beautiful eyes. I’m my very best when you’re watching me, Crowley. I’m sorry I had to walk away so often before I learned.” 

“S’alright.”

“Never again.”

“Nope.” 

Crowley smiled a bit thickly, golden eyes glistening, and reached for Aziraphale’s hand. With the other he picked up _Les Fruits du Boudoir_ and took a nibble, then held it to Aziraphale’s smiling lips.


	3. Appendix: Soundtrack, and a Portrait

First order of business, while I was writing this I encountered this astonishing portrait of Aziraphale in feminine form, via the Public Domain Review. I cannot recommend their Instagram account more highly in general: @publicdomainrev. The pic is "Feeling", one of a series of five depicting the senses, a print by Alexander van Haecken after an image by Jacopo Amiconi, ca. early 18th century:

So that's Aziraphale. Is it weird that I'm picturing Crowley as Dana Scully, more or less? Hair era of your choosing.

Then here are cool live performances of some songs from the playlist I was enjoying while this story had its way with me. Do let me know what you end up liking:

Neko Case-- ["A Widow's Toast"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tEvJyT83_I8)

Four Tet-- ["My Angel Rocks Back and Forth"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?time_continue=2&v=IHsbQ4Kr8-Y&feature=emb_title)

Alabama Shakes-- ["Gimme All Your Love"](https://youtu.be/_sNNTpORtDQ)

Laura Mvula-- ["Green Garden"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IAIvf7VAWUA)

Frazey Ford-- ["Natural Law"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YL75CizjObE)

_(Taking light of this body, this body/And all your trust passes that surrounded me, yeah/I let the arrow fly and this truth pours from me/and shatters everything)_

Jana Hunter-- ["Palms"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dg7lb3K4WX0)

_I open my hands to you/I open my hands to you/And I showed you my palms/I showed you my soft skin for what it really was)_

Robyn (Live at the jammin' Nobel Peace Prize Awards?!?)-- ["Indestructible"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C8R8MbvTlT8)

Nakhane-- ["Just Like Heaven"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=al3Bc_CaVuI) (devastating Cure cover)

Mary Margaret O'Hara-- ["When You Know Why You're Happy"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GIhu2CcH7tw) (One of the all time best and weirdest live performances of... anything. RIP Hal Willner.)

The Blue Nile-- ["Stay"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z_8dD2QTyJk)

case/lang/veirs-- ["Greens of June"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zGvL1ZNT0Ug)

Queen Bey-- ["Halo"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e5rKKL37kHQ) (Holy shit acoustic version, secret Zimbits crosspost)

***


End file.
